Wonderful

by Jill Barnett

  But it is not. I am still here. My Clio. Do not cry. I am still here.

  The servants talked about her as if she were the one who was mad. She didn’t care; all this because she wanted to wash his hair. The blood and the dirt. It was still there. Reminders of what he had suffered.

  She refused to leave him that way. She set a ewer of warm water on the table and bent down to pick up a cloth she had dropped.

  There was tapping at the door.

  “Come,” she said, sitting back up and pushing her hair from her face.

  Roger came inside.

  “Is anything wrong?” she asked.

  He gave her a smile, then moved to the bed. He stood looking at Merrick for a long time, his face not showing what he was thinking. “Someone said you wished to wash his hair.” He did not laugh at her.

  “Aye.” She poured warm water into a wooden washbowl.

  “I thought you could use some help.”

  She looked up at him. “Thank you. I can. Will you lift his shoulders for me. Here, like that.”

  While Roger held him, she poured water over his hair and rubbed it with soap until it shone as black as a raven’s back. When she was finished, she set the bowl aside and turned back.

  Roger was toweling his hair. He saw her look and flushed, as if he was embarrassed. He handed her the cloth. “Here. You should probably do this.”

  She smiled. “Thank you.”

  He shrugged, still staring at Merrick. “’Twas naught.” He turned to leave.

  “Roger?”

  He looked back.

  “My words, my gratitude, ’tis not just because of this.” She waved her hand over Merrick’s damp head. “Washing his hair. What I meant was to thank you for caring about him.”

  Roger nodded and left without a word.

  She closed her eyes; tired from fighting this, she lay her head on the bed.

  So she did not see his eyes open until she awoke.

  Chapter 42

  After that they brought in the London physicians. Merrick was awake. Or looked as if he were. Sometimes he would open eyes.

  He could move if you got him up. He could swallow liquids like soup and water and wine. He could relieve himself and did so often.

  But he did not speak. There was no life in his eyes.

  Clio stood by the bed and stared at the physicians.

  They wanted to trepan him.

  Trepanning. They casually explained to her that it was boring holes in his head to relieve his brain.

  She could not believe what she was hearing. “Are you mad?”

  “You are a woman, my lady, and as such you cannot understand what we know to be true.” The physician, sent by a well-meaning Edward, was a pompous idiot.

  “And what is it that that I am incapable of understanding?”

  The man laughed at her. “I would be wasting my words.”

  “Explain anyway. That was what the king wanted. Am I correct?”

  He flushed, not liking being reminded of who had sent him. He gave a sigh and she wanted to trepan him.

  “The earl has damaged his brain.” One of the assistants, one of the five with him, held out a measuring stick and pointed to a mark on it.

  “What is that?”

  “I measured his hair, my lady.”

  “It is common knowledge that hair grows from the brain.” One of them explained to her as if she herself had no brain.

  The other one held up the stick for her to see. “Look here, this is where I marked it and this is where it is now. You can see his hair barely grows. This is proof that his brain is harmed.”

  She crossed her arms over her chest. “I cut his hair. I found it easier to wash that way.”

  The men huddled together and were whispering.

  “This is not necessary. Believe me when I tell you the earl’s hair is growing just fine.”

  The looks the physician and his men exchanged were condescending, to say the least. They did not believe her and thought her a liar and incapable of thinking, much less of understanding their proof of Merrick’s problems.

  For just one insecure lapse of sense, she asked herself, what if they were right? God help her, what if these foolish men were right?

  Then she looked long and hard at those men who were standing there and telling her that they wanted to bore holes in her husband’s head.

  No, her sense cried out to her. No.

  She looked at them and pointed to the door. “Get out.”

  “But, my lady, the king himself sent us. He is Earl Merrick’s liege and friend and wants him to have the best care.”

  “I do not think Edward wishes you to bore holes in his friend’s head. Now, I said get out.”

  A week later another man came, another physician. He seemed to her to be understanding until the next morning, when she walked in and found Merrick covered in leeches.

  Clio crossed the room like a raging bull and pulled the disgusting slugs from Merrick’s arms. “I said you will not touch him!” She heaved the leeches at him one by one.

  “You will not poke holes in his head or put vermin on his skin. You will not touch him. Do you understand?” She grabbed at the man, but he was quick enough to duck.

  She wrapped her arms around herself, and she screamed, “Get out! Get out now!”

  Time took on a curious quality, as if winter had set in and frozen it in place. She did the daily things, the routine. She bathed him every morning before she fed him and dressed him. She spent time with him and had Roger and Sir Isambard carry him into the sunlight when the days were warm enough.

  At one point she even had them sit him on his warhorse. She would do anything she could to try to get him to come back to her. She felt so close. So very close.

  When it became too much. She thought of everyday things: The tapestries that needed shaking. The hungry hounds that needed food. The soiled linen that should be washed.

  The meat that had to be killed, dressed, and salted for winter. She concentrated on the mundane. Because if she didn’t have to think, she wouldn’t have to feel.

  So she walked through the days like a cipher, mindlessly doing what had to be done, but beyond feeling, beyond pain, beyond anything, because the whole thing was just too horrendous for her to even acknowledge.

  She had to fight this her own way. And she had to fight, daily, hourly, because if she gave up, she would just curl into a ball and let the enormousness of it all swallow her.

  She took to sleeping with him at night. She wanted to be near him. So she lay her head against his chest because she had to hear his heartbeat. It gave her hope and something to cling to when it seemed as if her whole world was slipping away.

  Sometimes she would remember back to that time when she didn’t know Merrick, when he was only a knight who had forgotten her for all those years.

  She was ashamed and humbled. All those worries she’d had about their life together. Never once had she thought about something like this happening.

  For him to be here in body and breath, but not in his mind or spirit. She lay next to him one night and sighed his name as she did every night. “Your heartbeat is still here, my love. I know it. I can feel it.”

  She waited for the sound of his voice, as she always did, but heard nothing. She rested her head on his chest and murmured, “He is here. He is here. But Lord in heaven why, oh, why doesn’t he know it?”

  I hear you. I can hear you. One day I smelled the rose you rubbed along my lips and nose. And I remembered doing the same to you, the night of our wedding.

  Sometimes I can feel your touch, like now, when you rest your head on my chest. I can feel your tears. Always I can feel your pain. I carry you here, in my heart.

  I do not want to leave you. I want to stay. I want to love you again. I do, but I cannot reach that place. I try, but it is so very far away from me.

  Clio, please. Do not give up.

  The first snow came, but no routines at the castle had changed. Camrose went
on as it had before, because Merrick’s men knew him well. They knew how he commanded them and without him there, they grew to command themselves the same way.

  Even Tobin had grown. He treated Thud and Thwack with respect. He demanded that the other squires do the same. He taught the lads with patience, the way Merrick would have.

  That fall, Tobin de Clare had grown, not just in height and breadth, but in spirit, in humanity. He had lost that adolescent arrogance and become a man.

  The squire had spent time with Merrick, crying at first, then sitting and talking to him as Clio did. She grew to like de Clare and the others.

  All of Merrick’s men came to see him. They claimed they could do no less when his wife, one small woman, would not give in. What cowards would they be if they did not believe?

  She grew to tolerate Brother Dismas and his cures and holy oils, his prayers and masses on Merrick’s behalf.

  She talked to Merrick every night, every day. She talked of her dreams or her childhood. She told him all the things she had done that drove her father to try to save her soul.

  She tried to remember her mother and tell him about that. She made up stories about what his childhood must have been like, from her view of course.

  But nothing changed with Merrick. Each day passed until winter had come and gone and spring was there. Nothing changed in Clio’s existence except the weather.

  Then, it was a bright spring day, the sun was shining and the birds sat on the windowsills and sang. Cyclops was curled next to Merrick and the world outside looked lovely.

  But ever since she had gotten up, she had been feeling as if something was wrong. There was this sharp pang inside of her and she had snapped at the servants and grumbled at anyone who would listen.

  Late in the day she grew quiet and moody. She had no appetite. Finally she locked herself inside the room with no one but Merrick and herself. She sat on the bed and combed the knots from her hair as if she were punishing herself.

  The comb caught and she grew frustrated. She stood up and cursed, then flung the ivory comb across the room.

  It cracked against the stone wall and broke in two.

  She stood there, staring at it. Then she remembered how Merrick had combed her hair with it that night so long ago. She ran over and picked up the pieces of broken ivory, clutching them to her, and she began to cry. She sat there sobbing and rocking on the floor.

  A light flashed in the distance, just after the sun had set. She stood and went to the window, pushed the glass panel open, and stared at the eastern hills.

  There were bonfires. Great bonfires. It was Easter.

  She closed her eyes. Easter.

  Their babe was to have been born on Easter. The daughter she would never have.

  She stared down at the broken comb.

  It seemed to stand for everything in her life that had broken. Her parents, her babe, and her husband. Her life seemed to be breaking apart before her eyes.

  She walked over to the bed. Merrick lay there, his eyes open, his look blank.

  “Wake up!”

  He did not move.

  “Damn you, wake up!” She grabbed his shoulders and shook him, hard. “Wake up! I will not do this alone! Our babe! We lost our babe. You will not do this. You will not stay like this. I will not let you. Wake up. You are my husband. I want to have your children. You owe me a baby. You owe me one. One with black hair and blue eyes and a temper! Merrick! Stop this!”

  She was sobbing for her baby, for her husband, for her mother and father and everyone she had lost.

  She screamed until she was hoarse.

  She threw things. She ripped the tapestries off the walls and broke anything she could get her hands on.

  For long minutes she tore the room apart, breaking furniture and urns, and just killing things.

  She stopped finally, stood in the center of the room, her chest heaving, her hands shaking, sobbing because she could not stop even should she try. She stared down at her empty hands and flung herself onto the bed, her arms around Merrick.

  She huddled against him. “Merrick, my Merrick. Please … I need you.”

  Then she fell into a deep sleep.

  “What is the damn cat doing on the bed?”

  Clio lay there for a moment, her mind still half in sleep. She could feel the warmth of Merrick’s chest, the way she always did. She sighed and moved her hand up to feel his heartbeat.

  “Woman! Stop trying to distract me. I asked you a question.”

  My God, she was hearing things. The Earl of Grumps.

  There was a horrid cat shriek and a dull thud.

  Clio whipped up. “Cyclops, what are you about?”

  The cat was on the floor, his paws out and his tail up. He was hissing at something over her shoulder.

  “I told you to keep him off my bed.”

  “Merrick?” She turned and stared at her husband. She frowned. “Merrick?” She moved close to his eyes. They were anything but blank.

  “Aye?” His voice was disgruntled.

  “You are angry.”

  He crossed his arms over his chest. “I told you to keep that cat off the bed. Damn thing bit me.” He scowled down at his shoulder. Then he looked up. His scowling expression softened. He reached out a hand and touched her cheek with a fingertip. “You are crying.”

  She nodded, unable to speak.

  “Come here.” He held his arms open and she fell into them. “Stop crying.” He patted her shoulder.

  “You’re back. Oh, God, you are back.”

  He tilted her head up and looked into her eyes. “I was never gone. I could not leave you, woman. You said it yourself. You need me.” Then he kissed her.

  I kiss her.

  Her lips are open

  And I am drunk

  Without a beer.

  —Song of Harper, ancient Egypt

  Epilogue

  ’Twas over three years before the birth of their first child—three long years, considering Clio’s impatient nature. But on a bright spring day when the scarlet poppies bloomed in the stubble of spring brush, Edward Arthur Julius de Beaucourt came into the world.

  His mother insisted on examining his toes. Merrick had never heard of such a thing … looking at the babe’s toes. She pronounced them perfect, just like his father, which only confused Merrick more, since Clio had never, to his knowledge, called him “perfect.”

  But he knew what they had was as close to a perfect love as heaven allowed.

  Over the next ten years, five more sons were born, all with what their mother called “gate guard toes.”

  There was Roger John, a lad with black hair and green eyes, just like his oldest brother. Both were brawny boys, with quick minds and brave spirits. They would become two of the greatest knights in the history of England.

  Next came William August and Gerald Phillip, both fair-haired with Merrick’s blue eyes and their mother’s glib tongue. They were the scholars, more into experiments and inventions than horses and the practice field.

  The last of the sons were Thomas Mark and Griffin David. Or as they were affectionately known at Camrose: Trouble and More Trouble.

  They were as different as night from day, but their minds were filled with wonderfully similar ideas … mostly pranks.

  Years later, when Merrick’s sight was weak and his limbs not so strong, when his hair was gray—something he blamed on his two youngest sons—and when his grandchildren ran through the halls at Camrose, he still remembered that gift he had been given so long ago.

  ’Twas still fresh in his mind, as if it had been etched there by the very hand of God. He turned and looked at his wife and saw the look in her eyes, the smile on her lips, the secret bond that still passed between them, the way he could still kiss her and feel drunk without beer.

  He was the most fortunate of men, for, just as before, he understood God’s gift to him. God had given him something more precious than gold or wealth or power, that most wonderful of all things.
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  He had given him this woman.

  Dear Reader,

  One of the first questions people ask writers is “Where do you get your ideas?” The truth is that ideas come from the strangest places: lines of dialogue that just pop into your head when you’re doing something mundane, like brushing your teeth; sights along a rural roadway; or, as in the case of this book, a beer commercial.

  I want to acknowledge some special people whose contributions to Wonderful were invaluable. The great medical minds of the San Ramon Women’s Medical Group and Eileen Dreyer, RN, author, and diva—who graciously and patiently shared their knowledge and did not hesitate when I said, “medieval coma.”

  A special thanks to my brother-in-law Gerry Stadler for having the foresight to take four years of Latin a long time ago. An enormous thanks to Beth Rowe for her conceptual input, to the Susans—Susan Wiggs and Susan Elizabeth Phillips—for their brainstorming. All helped trigger some truly magical ideas for me. There would be no book without them.

  Thanks to my daughter, who gave me the best line in the book, the Pocket miracle team—Amy Pierpont, Kate Collins, and of course, my editor, Linda Marrow, whose patience, insight, and gift of creative license are so important to me.

  Historical notes:

  The powerful heather ale referred to in this book and its legend are true. As chronicled, “no beer throughout history has aroused so much speculation and curiosity as the lost Heather Ale of the Picts.” The first ale brewed in the British Isles, Pict ale was famous for its hallucinogenic powers.

  The secret recipe did die out sometime around the fourth century along with the Picts. However, as late as the nineteenth century, heather ale was rumored to have been brewed in some small isolated areas of Britain.

  Interestingly, modern science has found a certain unusual type of red heather to have ingredients similar to LSD. This plant is believed to be the ale’s “magical ingredient.”